Dust Devil (31 page)

He
was vaguely startled to find it empty. Somehow, deep down inside, he
had expected to see Sarah sitting here, waiting for him, as she
always had. If he closed his eyes, he could envision her even now,
could smell the fragrance of her honeysuckle perfume in his nostrils,
could taste her mouth and skin upon his tongue. He hadn’t known
how just the sight of this place, how the thought of her here would
affect him, causing his throat to close up tight with emotion and
unexpected tears to sting his eyes.

Slowly,
Renzo let his body slide down one wall of the tree house to the
floor, where, sighing raggedly, he laid his head on his knees,
feeling suddenly tired and old far beyond his thirty-four years, as
though he were long dead and turned to dust inside. He sat there for
a very long time, smoking and drinking and remembering, so darkness
had fallen when he finally rose to descend from the boughs of the
sycamore.

Of
their own volition, his booted feet carried him toward the farmhouse,
coming to a halt amid the moon-shadowed trees at the edge of the
lawn, where masses of honeysuckle vines spread in tangled abundance,
their sweet scent filling the night air, fireflies flashing among the
tiny white blossoms. The house was almost as he remembered it, except
that upstairs, where there had once been a single old door leading to
the deck above the veranda, there was now a bank of tall, spacious
windows and a pair of French doors. But the remodeling had been
harmoniously accomplished, with a great deal of thought and care for
the Victorian architecture, so the change seemed a natural part of
the original structure, as though it had always been there.

A
collection of wind chimes hung above the deck, tinkling melodically
with each breath of the torpid night breeze. How like Sarah they
were, Renzo reflected; how she would love them,
did
love
them. For she was here. Somehow he knew that instinctively. He
sensed her presence, grasped intuitively that the bedroom that lay
beyond the wind chimes was her own.

Even
as the thought occurred to him, the French doors opened and Sarah
herself appeared, a vision in white, the lawn nightgown she wore so
delicate and sheer that Renzo could see she was naked beneath it. He
inhaled sharply a the sight. She was, if possible, even more
beautiful than he
remembered,
with the moonlight showering down on her, casting a silvery halo
about her dark brown hair, which spilled in a shining mass around her
arresting face upturned to the night sky.

“
Sarah,”
he whispered hoarsely. “Sarah.”

Perhaps
the night wind carried the sound of his low voice to her ears. Renzo
didn’t know. He knew only that she suddenly glanced from the
stars toward the trees where he stood, concealed by the darkness. Her
lips parted, as though in surprise or fear, and then she abruptly
whirled and disappeared into the house.

As
he lay in bed in the loft that sight, she came to him in misted
dreams. And Renzo buried himself inside her, making love to her until
she trembled and shuddered violently and cried out softly in his
arms. Afterward, he held her close and gently kissed the tears from
her face, luminescent in the silvery darkness.

But
when he awoke at dawn, she was gone. Not even the delicate,
intoxicating scent of her lingered in the rumpled white sheets. And
he knew then, aching and bereft, that she had never really been there
at all.

Journeys
end in lovers meeting,

Every
wise man’s son doth know.

Twelfth
Night

—
William
Shakespeare

Last
night, Renzo Cassavettes had stood outside on her lawn in the
darkness, watching her. Sarah had known it as surely as she knew her
own name, as though, despite their years apart, the bonds they had
shared since childhood were as strong and whole as ever. She had
sensed his smoldering, impassioned eyes on her body, mentally
stripping her naked, and she had felt as shaken, heated and
erotically violated as she would have had she suddenly been forcibly
seduced by someone about whom she had hitherto only dreamed darkly
and fantasized endlessly. A terrible, tantalizing foreboding and
excitement had gripped her—so fiercely that she had felt almost
physically ill from the blind sensations. Her head spinning as though
she had
drank
too much of the sweet red wine she routinely poured herself a single
glass of each night—she thought of it as her one sinful
indulgence—she had lain down on her bed. Only to realize some
minute later, to her shock and horror, that she was running her hands
sensuously over her body, tugging with rough impatience at her
nightgown, insidiously stroking her breasts and thighs, the soft,
moist heart of her, which had ached unbearably.

He
had only had to stand there in the distance, looking at her, not even
close enough to touch her, and it had been as though some dark, raw,
primal thing had seized her in its fist, unleashing desires and needs
no other man had ever stirred and that she had believed long securely
caged—or even dead—inside her. That thought had terrified
her. For more than a decade now, she had been in control of herself
and her emotions. Last night had revealed that control to be only an
illusion, smoke and mirrors, easily shattered.

This
morning, in the wake of her distress, questions and another fear had
assailed her. Why had Renzo been on her property, spying on her? If
he had gone to all the trouble of tracking her down, it was only a
matter of time before he learned about Alex, as well. Or perhaps he
already knew. Perhaps that was why he had come to the house last
night. He was a successful investigative reporter, with the same sort
of instincts as a secret agent or a private detective. If he planned
to try to take Alex away from her, would he not gather as much
information beforehand as he could, ammunition to use against her in
battle?

That
was why Sarah had finally called her friend Liz Delaney, nee Tyrrell.
After graduating from Lincoln High School, Liz had obtained her law
degree and was now married to Eveline Holbrooke’s first
ex-husband, Parker Delaney, having determinedly snagged him on the
rebound and proved herself a much more satisfactory wife than Evie
had ever been. Both Liz and Parker were junior partners in his
father’s law firm of Delaney, Pierce & Langford. Liz’s
schedule today had been such that she was unable to work Sarah in.
But having known her since grade school, Liz had recognized the
urgency and desperation in Sarah’s voice on the telephone and
so had agreed to meet her after work, for drinks and supper at the
Grain Elevator.

The
Grain Elevator actually had been used as such at one time. But these
days, cleverly remodeled to support its new role while retaining the
facade of its old, it was the trendiest restaurant and club for miles
around, the prime gathering place for the town’s upwardly
mobile young crowd, not so old-fashioned and stuffy as the country
club and a considerable step up from the blue-collar Steak ’n’
Baked, the sleazy Kewpie-Doll Lounge and the rambunctious Rowdy’s
Roadhouse, which was out off the highway and a haven for bikers, coal
miners and cowboys. When making the reservation at the Grain
Elevator, Sarah had requested one of the more private booths in the
restaurant upstairs, so she and Liz could talk undisturbed, the
noisy, swinging singles tending to congregate in the ground-floor
bar.

Now,
as Sarah sipped the pleasantly cold and tart Tom Collins she had
ordered once she and Liz had finished their dinner, she wasn’t
quite sure how to begin. “I—I need some legal advice,
Liz,” she confessed at last to her smart,
redheaded
friend sitting across from her at the table. “It’s
about... my son.”

“
Alex!
Oh, sweetie, has he got into some kind of trouble with the law?”
Liz’s carefully arched brows flew together in a frown of
concern.

“
No.
Oh, no, it’s nothing like that, thank heavens.” Sarah
managed a tremulous smile. “Alex himself is fine.”
Glancing around cautiously, she lowered her voice and leaned toward
Liz. “It’s his father who’s worrying me. I’m—I’m
afraid he.. .well, that he may be planning on trying to—to take
Alex away from me!”

“
What?”
Liz exclaimed, her mouth gaping with astonishment. Then, to Sarah’s
shock, she abruptly burst into laughter. “Oh, Sarah... I’m
so... sorry,” she gasped between peals of merriment. “I
can tell from that look of injury and indignation on your face that
you don’t find this the least bit funny. But honestly, sweetie,
the very idea is preposterous! I mean—no offense intended—but
you don’t even know who Alex’s father is, do you? I
thought that on his birth certificate, you listed his father as
unknown—at least, that was the rumor floating around town at
the time.”

“
Yes,
I did. But for heaven’s sake, Liz! Please don’t tell me
even
you
believed
me that shamelessly wanton and stupid! Back in high school you were
my best friend. You still are. Have you ever had cause to think I was
really and truly the slut people claimed? Because I’m not—and
I never was. I’ve always known who fathered my son. I simply
had good and valid reasons for not wanting the rest of the whole
damned town to know, too, that’s all.”

“
I’m
sorry, Sarah.” Liz's voice was now laced with sincerity, her
face sober. “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. Really,
I didn’t. Of course I knew most of the gossip all those years
back wasn’t the least bit true. And I should have realized this
is no laughing matter to you, but one of serious concern. So let’s
take things point by point, shall we? Number one—is the boy’s
father aware Alex is his son?”

“
Until
recently, I would have said no. But now, I’m not so sure.”
Sarah stirred the slender striped straw in her Tom Collins
thoughtfully, her brow knitted in concentration. “Something’s
happened within the last weeks that has made me think he may have
learned about Alex—or will shortly. No, please don’t pry,
Liz. I don’t want to say anything more than what I’ve
already told you.”

“
All
right. Fair enough,” Liz stated, resolutely suppressing her own
personal curiosity, reminding herself she was currently acting as an
attorney, as well as a friend, in this affair. “We’ll set
aside the question of the identity of Alex’s father, then, for
the time being. In addition, we’ll assume for argument’s
sake that the boy’s father has indeed learned Alex is his son.
But in order to make any attempt at all at taking Alex away from you,
he’d first require some proof of paternity. Does he have any?”

“
No.”
Sarah shook her head. “It would be his word against mine.
Still, aren’t there DNA tests these days that would provide him
with the proof he’d need?”

“
Yes,
but he’d have to show reasonable cause to justify his believing
himself Alex’s father for such tests even to be considered.
Could he do that?”

“
Yes,”
Sarah admitted reluctantly, anxiously, thinking of how much Alex
resembled Renzo as a child. “He probably could.”

“
All
right, then. Let’s say he managed to persuade a judge to order
you and Alex both to submit yourselves for DNA testing. Even if
paternity were proved beyond a doubt, Alex’s father would still
have to convince a court he had legitimate reasons for wishing to
deprive you of custody of the boy. He’d have to demonstrate
that you’re an unfit mother, for example. And, Sarah, sweetie,
that’s just not going to happen. So the best advice I can give
you, both as your lawyer and your friend, is not to worry about this
anymore. You’re upsetting yourself over nothing.”